The people on 4 Center, hidden away as it is in a small building, have next to no contact with the other units we might as well be on different planets. refers to as “the storks,” are in various phases of imperceptible recovery and tend to stick together.) The garden is also home to patients from 4 South, which caters to patients from within the surrounding Washington Heights community, and 5 South, which treats patients with psychotic and substance-abuse disorders. On either side of him are ragtag groups of people culled from several units of the hospital, including the one I am on, which is devoted primarily to the treatment of patients with depression or eating disorders. I can see R., the most recent addition to our dysfunctional gang of 12 on 4 Center, sitting on a bench in his unseasonal cashmere polo, smoking a cigarette and tapping his foot with equal intensity. Looking out onto the highway overpass there is a green-and-white sign indicating “Exit - West 178th Street” nearer to the entrance another sign explains: “The Patients’ Park & Garden is for the use of patients and their families only, and for staff escorting patients. I have only to open my eyes for the surreal scene to come back into my immediate line of vision, like a picnic area without picnickers: two barbecue grills, bags of mulch that seem never to be opened, empty planters, clusters of tables and chairs, the entire area cordoned off behind a high mesh fence. Soggy as my brain is from being wrenched off a slew of antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications in the last 10 days, I reach for a Coleridgian suspension of disbelief, ignoring the roar of traffic and summoning up the sound of breaking waves.
In the 20 or so minutes of “fresh air” allotted after lunch (one of four such breaks on the daily schedule), I try to forget where I am, imaging myself elsewhere than in this fenced-off concrete garden bordered by the West Side Highway on one side and Riverside Drive on the other, planted with patches of green and a few lonely flowers, my movements watched over by a more or less friendly psychiatric aide.
My mind floats away into a space where chronology doesn’t count: I am back on the beach of my adolescence, lost in a book, or talking to my old college chum Bethanie as we brave the bay water in front of her parents’ house in Connecticut, where she comes to visit every summer. As I soak up the rays I think about summers past, the squawking of seagulls on the beach and walking along the water with my daughter, picking out enticing seashells, arguing over their various merits. I am lying on my back on the grass, listening to the intermittent chirping of nearby birds my eyes are closed, the better to savor the warmth on my face. IT IS A SPARKLING DAY IN MID-JUNE, the sun out in full force, the sky a limpid blue.
0 kommentar(er)
